


"You've been in 1985 Too Long," She Said. And I, Naturally, Fled...

by maud_lynn_street



Category: The Smiths
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, check the notes for a warning!!!, honestly I don't know if it's necessary but if it was and I hurt someone I'd feel so bad, ummmmmmm I don't really know what to tag this lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maud_lynn_street/pseuds/maud_lynn_street
Summary: Morrissey is in love with Johnny, but his overbearing shyness prevents him from seeing their situation objectively. Thankfully, SOMEONE does SOMETHING to help Moz gain new perspective
Relationships: Johnny Marr/Morrissey
Comments: 13
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys this is the first fanfiction I've ever written :~> It's going to be crazy seeing my own fic posted lol. Anyway I hope you enjoy... I do want to warn that in a paragraph Moz speaks in a way that devalues life a bit? This whole thing is a bit ghosty and mystic... not in a Halloween way, more in a Franny and Zooey Glass sense. That's just how I was raised. OH!! Sorry I'm just rambling. Please enjoy <333

The Smiths, the stagehands, various stray cats, all rushed into the hotel; relieved to no longer be being showered by the lashing rain, or the unwavering adoration. Morrissey loved to be on stage, of course, but he couldn’t help eventually feeling exhausted. This had been their last show of the UK Meat Is Murder spring tour, and while the entire band was thrilled to champion their cause across the country, they were all glad to be going back to Manchester in the morning. Right now, though, all Morrissey’s going to is bed. Everyone else seemed to be catching their breath or something. 

He dragged his feet towards the lift, far too tired to bother waving goodbye to his bandmates. Though not to worry, Johnny sensed his absence and gleefully rushed towards him. The others trailed behind. 

“Oi Mozzer, going to bed this early?” The fluorescent lighting reflected so softly on Johnny’s features, he shared a striking resemblance to an angel---well, he always did. The lighting’s nothing to do with it... Morrissey had to stop his mind from drifting and reply to his inquiry---the trouble is, he scarcely remembered what Johnny had said, being so distracted by his rain-soaked hair and gleaming smile. He imagined it probably had had something to do with his early and silent departure. 

“I’m exhausted, I’m just going to fling myself into bed and fall comatose.” Morrissey felt his face heat up as Johnny leaned in closer to him, laughing, touching his arm, warming his heart. They were such great friends, how could he ever want them to be more than that? Oh, but he couldn’t help his heart’s deepest desires. He could only try to hide them. 

“Y’need me to go up with you? Keep ya company?” Johnny asked, seemingly uninterested in spending time with Mike and Andy, who were now waiting for the lift as well. He continued, tenderly, “Hey, your jumper is completely soaked through. Have y’got another one? I can let you borrow one of mine, might be a bit too small though. But my room’s real warm, and it's come with this nice fluffy towel, I can---” 

“Jesus, Johnny, missing your girlfriend much?” Andy so rudely interrupted. 

Johnny looked at him, at first abashed, as though he hadn’t realized anyone was by them. Then, with indignation, “I told ya, mate, for the nine-hundredth time, Angie and I are on a break.”

“Oh, I can’t believe the gall of Andy.” Morrissey thought to himself, as he trudged towards the stairwell. Three flights of cold, steep, stone steps suddenly didn’t seem such an unattractive upheaval. He just wanted to get away from the situation, to avoid embarrassing Johnny any further. 

As he made the long trek up the stairs, his mind was consumed with thoughts such as, “Why would Andy put those connotations into his head? If there’s any justice in the world, Johnny won’t realize what a flirt he sounds. Who is Andy to try and deprive me of the only semblance of romance I’ve ever experienced? Maybe I should go to Johnny, try on some of his jumpers---” but before he had time to properly consider it, he had reached his own room. 

He jammed the key into the door, barely closed it behind himself, and flung himself directly into the lonely bed. Not bothering to brush his teeth or change into pyjamas, he picked up the Collected Plays of Oscar Wilde he had left on the bedside table; but the book hadn’t the chance to be read, as Morrissey’s eyes immediately fell shut, and he instantly drifted to sleep.

Morrissey found himself in a very pleasant dream, one he’d be content never waking from. He lay on a beach, at an hour no one else had seemed to had woken up for. There seemed to be a reflection of the sky, with its many shades of pink and its very inviting clouds, on the sea and on the tide. He heard playing, faintly, a cassette of The Shangri-Las. He and Johnny must have turned the car speakers up to offensively loud volumes if they were able to hear it at this distance---they didn’t care. Johnny’s in his arms, occupying most of his thoughts and senses. There’s an ocean breeze, but all Morrissey feels is the warmth of Johnny. People may start visiting the beach shortly, to jog or ride their bikes or whatever, but he’s sure that he wouldn’t even notice. How could he be anything less than transfixed by this boy, resting so securely in his arms? Johnny looked up at him, drowsily, adoringly, and Morrissey could just about die. It felt so real, he was so happy. 

He closed his eyes briefly, to enjoy Johnny’s presence more deeply, then regretted it. When he’d opened his eyes, he was back at his hotel room. Alone. Curiously though, he was standing up, facing the middle of the room. Content to ignore any oddity and eager to fall back asleep, Morrissey turned towards his bed---but saw that he was already lying there. Well, his body at least. 

“Great, now what am I to deal with? Being a ghost? I’ve died then?” Morrissey groaned, getting into bed next to his sleeping body. He moaned on, “Life is so tragically cruel that merely dreaming of happiness renders me deceased? How unbelievably terrible… What could possibly possess anyone to desire living? Oh, but death doesn’t seem overly glamorous either; I’m still here, only now I’m unable to be seen… well… I was just hoping for something more---or less---out of death. Neither of these particularly appeal to me---now I really know.”

Confidently, a disembodied voice commanded, “Be afraid of nothing.” 

“I’m more maudlin at the current state of things, but thank you.” Morrissey half-mindedly replied. 

Suddenly, in the middle of the room, a deep-green divon materialised. It was decorated in gilt buttons and floral embroidery; it was intriguing, but before Morrissey had a chance to investigate it, a familiar man flung himself on it. This man, Morrissey had seen thousands of times. In photographs. But he hadn’t realized how tall he’d be, or that he’d have a golden halo and two little white wings. 

“My God,” Morrissey muttered. 

Oscar Wilde retorted, “I don’t mean to sound a bore and correct you, but I’m actually your guardian angel.” 

“That makes a tremendous amount of sense. I knew there was some sort of union between us… Are you here to bring me back to Hell?” 

“Look at your body, does it really appear to be deceased? It’s breathing at least. You’re just as alive as before.” 

“What am I doing outside of my body then?” 

“I brought you out. Listen, this is of the utmost importance. This requires me to be very direct, though I’m unable to give you much information. If you continue to carry on how you have been, The Smiths will break up in 1987 and you will never write with Johnny again---”

Morrissey cuts him off with a wail, “What? What, how? How could that possibly be the case? We’re doing so well, we’re growing even closer---”

Wilde interrupts Morrissey’s crying in order to finish his very important statement, “You and Johnny are soulmates. It’s necessary for both your wellbeings, as well as music in general’s wellbeing, that The Smiths stay together. You two must stay together. To gain more perspective, with distance, I’ll be sending you to the year 2021. I’ll put a phone in your pocket, it won’t seem so silly once you get there. You must prevent certain things from happening, that’s all I can say. Oh, I must mention, in the year 2021 there’s a global pandemic. Wear a mask around other people.” 

And just as he’d finished his sentence, Oscar Wilde sent Morrissey 36 years into the future---and he’d be waking up any second.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night I was actually told by MY guardian angel that I need to hurry up and continue writing this. Oops sorry for taking so long... And this chapter is rather short, I just felt I should post something already. I'll keep writing once this goes up though, I promise lol anyway enjoy...

Morrissey awoke in a stiff bed, and the surroundings---while blurry---were completely familiar. A sense of confinement took him over, there was a draft his cardigan couldn’t protect from, the curtains were hung heavy and shut closed---what a comfort; he’d woken up in his old bedroom, 384 Kings Road. 

As is routine, he stood up and flung the curtains open; and watching dazedly out the window, concluded that the whole thing with Oscar Wilde must have been a dream. In fact, perhaps, the whole of his Smiths career had been dreamt as well. He’d just slept for a bit longer than usual, and remained still in 1981. The issue with that conclusion, though, was the complete and utter idiocy. 

Fumbling his hand on the bedside table, Morrissey found his glasses and hurriedly pushed them onto his face. Staring outside, now much more intensely, he felt things were very amiss. The whole of the world---or the street at least---was shinier, more stagnant and isolated, more modernized. Something about it seemed terrible and odd...It was difficult to describe. 

Turning to investigate the bedroom, he realized it was, very clearly, no longer his. Where had his posters of James Dean and Oscar Wilde gone? His books, his shelves? They’d all disappeared. Along with his records, his tapes, everything. In its place was some vague university decor or something---it was far too ugly to spend decent time looking at. 

Before having the chance to collapse out of abhorrence, or run for fear of dear life, Morrissey’s attention was brought to the bedroom door: As he heard the sound of it opening and, immediately afterwards, a cup shattering quite dramatically. 

“What are you doing in my room? How did you get in here? Look what you’ve done, you’ve unsettled me so deeply I’ve dropped my tea.” Said a boy, probably around 19 years of age. 

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, that’ll be an awful stain.” Said Morrissey, probably a bit red in the face. 

“You mean to tell me that? This Earl Grey is incredibly strong, I steeped it for 10 minutes.” 

“10 minutes? Do you ever find that your tea tastes disgustingly bitter? Well that’s why. Are you, by chance, clinically insane?” 

“So you’re just stood there, having broken into my house, insulting my method of brewing tea? You’re ridiculous.” 

“Well, I didn’t break in.” 

“How are you in my bedroom then?” 

Morrissey considered the question for a brief moment, and then answered with complete and slightly haughty confidence, “I can only imagine I materialized here.” 

“What?” 

“Like the divan.” 

“What the hell are you on about?” 

“That gorgeous divan I saw last night. Well, 1985---what year is this again?” 

Abruptly, the boy turned outside to the hallway and yelled, “Mum, someone’s broke into my room pretending to be Morrissey again. No, he’s new. He’s done a good job, appearance wise. Yes, please come help shoo him away, please don’t look at my floor.” 

But he didn’t need any motivational speeches. As the boy’s back was turned, Morrissey ran out the door and down the stairs. Remarking to himself, as he fled, that the steps had been carpeted and the wallpaper painted over; the house had become garish without any redeeming sense of charm. And as he reached for the door to step outside, he looked back for a second and decided, very impassionedly, that he’d move Heaven and Hell to prevent this future from ever becoming reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter as much as the last one, no certainly not. But I think the very last chapter will be nice, I have a better plan for that. Anyways... Oh thank you DEARLY everyone who commented and left kudos last time :-> That's sooooo nice you're all so kind <333


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